Accompaniment
by Solem-Quaero
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is the socially awkward yet musically gifted senior at the high school the timid John Watson is new to. After an astonishing solo violin act by the talented Mr. Holmes, John finds it to be his new goal to simply talk face to face with this peer, never assuming this acquaintance may be anything more than just that.
1. Prologue

The orchestra came to a stop and the lights dimmed, cueing for an applause from the high school audience. I looked around at the surrounding faces, intent for the act to follow. Every so often I could see a couple of people look at each other, maybe exchange a few words and perhaps a giggle, but all stares were trained on the stage for the final performance; a solo violin act by a senior boy.

I myself had only ever heard of this boy through hushed whispers, the Einstein of forensics, Sherlock Holmes. The young, lanky man took his place center stage and the spotlight struck him, leaving his frail figure looking fierce and bold. The lights highlighted his high cheek bones and left the crowd in awe, all ogling at this striking boy. He had no sheet music, only an antiquated violin and a sleek bow. I hadn't noticed that my peers had been making subtle noises until Sherlock picked up his instrument to his chin and a hush flooded the auditorium. It was as he first pulled the bow across the strings that my breath got caught in my throat.

The sound was mystifying, so rich it was almost terrifying. I felt like I might drown in the intensity. His tune was dark, and though his bows were strong, his fingers flitted across the neck of the instrument and the bow among the strings like a well choreographed ballet. He was just as interesting to watch as he was to listen to. Something changed in the tune, although the octave remained the same, the notes seemed to come out lighter, more soothing, as though to comfort the crowd. When I heard he was the Einstein of forensics, I'd assumed he was naturally gifted at the science, I hadn't even considered that he also owned up to the violin talent.

I settled in my seat and let the music overwhelm me. In the presence, in the audience of this boy, I felt so amazingly normal. But John Watson was always normal, no matter what school I was enrolled in, I was the invisible student, and I was always comfortable with it. Now, however, the sheer talent being presented made me look back and see all the oportunities I missed to maybe be as great or to have as much potential as the excellent Sherlock Holmes.

Just as I was really sinking into the notes, they halted, and I looked at my peer and watched as he bowed and walked off the stage as we all clapped. I sat there wishing he could play more, just a little more, it felt so unfinished and I felt so unsatisfied. But how I felt didn't matter. As the clapping died down, everyone rose from their seats and began a jumbled exit. I stood up to find that I was a good half head shorter than most of the people around, but I've always been on the short side. I shake off the observation and file out with the rest of them, making a promise to myself that I would find that boy. I would confront him, compliment him face to face, let it be known that I admire him without shame. But that was for another time, for another day, it was a Friday afternoon, and we were all leaving for home. I could try to find him on my way out, but like a revenant, he was no where to be found after the performance and I was left with his mysterious aurora engulfing me.

Sherlock Holmes indeed was a talented boy, and all the way home, all I could think about was the possibility of becoming his acquaintance. But after our exchange of words I'd planned out, it was very unlikely that'd we'd become anything more than two people that one day talked. John Watson and Sherlock Holmes would probably never become anything even relevant to "acquaintances".


	2. Chapter 1

"So," my dad started his question just before he swallowed a well chewed mouthful of cod. He blotted his mouth with his napkin before continuing. "Johnathan, have you signed up for the football team yet?"

I nodded my head, a little sleepy. I cleared my throat a little before officially responding. "Yes sir, I have. The first practice is tomorrow morning." I myself took a fair bite from the fish leaking seasoned oils on my plate.

The table was quiet, and like a sixth sense, I can feel Harriet glance over at me. Through her jealousy, I can feel a bit of sympathy in the stare. Sure, as our dad's only son he sided with me on arguements and favored me, but as the only son of this army captain, the rest of my life was written out for me before I even got to read the introduction. He'd always said I had the bravery and practicallity of a soldier, I don't even think he hears me when I say I want to be a doctor.

"How was school, Dear?" My mother's soft voice breaks the thoughts that held me.

"It was fine," I reply without thinking, pushing my fork through the tender skin of the fish like a knife through softened butter. "There was a music performance, even a violin solo." The tune Sherlock had played so well filled my being and all I could do was a soft, almost inaudible sigh.

"Are you alr-" Mom tries to ask, but Dad unconsciously interupts, I look at my mom to see her look around and watch her eyes fall to her lap, despondent.

"I bet it was some priviliged girl, wasn't it?" He says, crudely cutting into his meal, not even looking at me when he asks the question. It's like when he left the army he left his manners behind, we'd all noticed how his etiquette reverted when he came back from Afghanistan.

"Well, actually, ahm- It was a boy. A tall boy."

I look to him for his reaction, but his eyes remain on his food and he shakes his head. He wipes his mouth again before replying, "Parents these days teach their sons to be fairies."

/

After dinner I remained in my room, my heart caught in my throat. Dad had the ability to be kind and sensitive, but all too often his prejudices got in the way. My hands drifted across the remaining four corroded strings of my guitar. I wasn't trying to play anything, but the coarse feel of the wires and the subtle curves of the wood was comforting, and the waves that made their home in my ear drums helped me think. The gentle noise that rose from the instrument was no Sherlock concerto, but it had the same value.

I didn't know Sherlock, but for some reason I trusted him. I trusted him to prove my father wrong, and if he was in fact a homosexual, then I trusted myself to show my dad that I was not going to end up like him. During my last year of high school I will play foot ball, but I would become a doctor and I will not be ashamed to admire Sherlock Holmes. I fell asleep in my jumper, guitar in my hands, and promising myself I would not follow in my father's footsteps.

/

When I woke up the next morning, sunlight from my window blurred my vision in luminescent stripes created by the blinds. Carefully, I sat up and put the guitar aside, stretching and scrambling to get the jumper off. The cool morning draft tingled my skin and caused the hair on the back of my neck to stand on end, but it was a nice refresher. As I pulled on a raggy t-shirt, I glanced down my arm, noticing the tan line from a summer filled with military camp. I pursed my lips and sighed, continuing to get ready.

Downstairs, I was greeted by the warm scent of eggs sunny side up.

"Good morning, Mom." I greet her as I enter the kitchen. A kind grin spreads across her face, causing the skin around her eyes to crease and the parentheses around her mouth to announce themselves.

"Good morning, Dear. Did you sleep well?" She replies, lifting the sizzling protein from the frying pan to a plate. On cue, the toaster dings and ejects a darkened slice of bread.

"I slept alright," I reply, watching her as she cautiously yet gracefully lifts the toast from its little oven. "And you?"

She sets the plate in front of me along with a small mason jar of grape preserves. "Oh, I'm fine, Dear." She pats my shoulder and kisses the crown of my head. "You need a good breakfast before practice."

"Thanks, Mom, you're great." I say, a genuine smile on my face. The eggs were bland but tolerable, and the starch and sweetness of the toast and jam was a nice compliment.

"Johnny?" She starts.

"Hm?"

"You know, you know I don't mind right? If that violinist you mentioned last night is a fairy. There's nothing wrong with it. And I know you want to please your father, but," she stops as though to collect her thoughts. She looks down at her hands, short locks drifting over her eyes and around the figure of her thin face. When she looks up again, she has a sincere smile on her face and her cheeks and ears are flushed. "But if you want to befriend this boy, then put your happiness before your father's, alright, Dear?"

My breath catches and I study her. We're both quiet as my face also collects sanguine, my smile flickering ever so slightly. "I, I know, Mom. I will. Thank you." I didn't know how to give a proper response to the situation except to confirm that I understand what she was saying.

I look back down at my plate, ever so slightly stained by grease, adding to the hominess of the ceramic dish already decorated with a faded farm yard chicken. To avoid a stationary stare, I glance over at the way the purple preserves reflected crimson under the light, recognizing in the silence the subtle noise of the continuous tick of the second hand on the clock. I look over to the classic clock on the shabby wall paper to see that it read approximately 7:30; about fifteen minutes until practice began.

I stand up from the kitchen table to announce my leaving. "I best be going, Mom. Have a good day." I kiss her lightly on the cheek, grab the foot ball equipment from the front door, and head out.

"Have a good time, Dear." She calls out as I leave.

The field isn't far away, just a few blocks over from my home, but my thoughts kept me occupied. I was nervous, and I didn't even know why, but my chest still felt tight. I always played foot ball with any school I enrolled in, maybe I was just mistaking the way the cool air seemed to shrink my lungs for nervousness. Perhaps my body knew something that my mind didn't, either way, I did my best to shake the unsettling feeling.

The field still had the early morning dew, and as I walked across, my tennis shoes became more and more moist. By the time I made it to a bench, my shoes were soggy and even left my feet slightly wet. I switched into a more appropriate pair of socks and pulled on my cleats as more people came to the field. I quickly put on my shin guards and trotted out to the middle of the playing grounds with a soccer ball.

"Come on, come on, gather up!" a dark hair boy called. He towered above the rest of us and would have been more daunting if it weren't for the fact that he had a thin figure, disproportional to his wide shoulders.

"Alright," he said, clapping his hands together, a strange kind of tucked-in smile on his face. "My name is Mycroft Holmes and I'll be your team captain for the season. If you've no questions, then let's get started on our first practice."

My eyes widen and I swear I can almost feel my pupils dilate. I look at my teammates whom all look apathetic, and for rightful reasons. Suddenly, we're all looking around at each other, making sure that there was no one with a question. I very much had a question, but it was the farthest thing from foot ball related. Mycroft looked each of us in the face and a toothy grin developed on his face. "Alright, let's get started."


	3. Chapter 2

No matter what school I went to and no matter what foot ball team I joined, I was always assigned the role of sweeper, this time was no different. I didn't mind, I actually enjoyed the position, but the damned thing always did a number on my knees. The joints of my knees seemed to creak as I walked to the school. The cool air didn't help either, slowing down the circulation and making the muscles even more stiff than they already were. The limp was noticable, but as I continued I began to straighten out, with no quiet protest from my body.

The metal handle of the door to the school was cold, the kind of cold that burned to the touch, but it was also the kind that over the years you grow accustomed to. The sudden change of temperature from the transition inside made my nose burn and ultimately caused me to sneeze.

I sniffed a little, holding my nose with my jumper sleeve, trying to warm it up to no avail. I blinked a few times and stared sleepily into space, momentarily forgetting where I was before proceeding to class. When I pulled my sleeve away, small spots of the recognizable rusted red color that was blood made its abode on the cloth.

"Dammit," I murmur under my breath, wiping my nose with my sleeve unconciously, probably smearing the blood across my upper lip and more so on the sweater. I was too tired to deal with this, too tired to deal with anything really, but my next hapless course of action seemed to be tripping over someone's carelessly placed textbook in the hallway. Some shoddy fucking beginning of a day this was.

I scrambled back to an upright position and looked around, my face no longer scarlet from the chilly weather, but rather from pure embarrassment. Few gazes seemed to be trained on me, and most of them were apathetic, leaving me to resume my way to human anatomy class.

The room was arid, its only decoration being a well portrayed graphite diagram of the human muscles and an over used chart of the periodic table, all on tasteless white walls that greeted the same bland, tiled floor. Any sunlight that came from the large window on one wall seemed to be cancelled out by the fluorescent lights that dominated the room, leaving the place looking more like a morgue than an actual classroom, excentuated ever more by the smell of disinfectant that came from the overnight cleaning. The pristine aura felt wonderful.

I sat at a black table top desk, setting my binder on it just to have the excuse for running my fingers over the smooth surface. There were no distractions in this room except for the students that may fill it, but nonetheless, I couldn't be more excited to be taking this class. Just being in here made me feel that much closer to being a doctor, Hell, even the room felt like a doctor's office, it all just made me giddy.

I watched as more students file in along with the teacher. There was one girl, her sandy brunette hair tied back and her eyes dark and soft. As she walked into the room, her attention fell to me and she came to an abrupt stop. Looking left, then right, then left again, she changed her course to where I sat, her gaze always shifting from side to side.

"I saw you trip in the hall, are you alright?" She asks, a timid nature masked by an outgoing voice.

A smile flickers on my face and I let out a tiny laugh, "Yes, of course, I'm fine. Just a little fumble, you know?"

"Oh, but your nose is bleeding." She says, her eyebrows furrowing slightly.

I perk up and involuntarily wipe my nose again, "Oh, yes I know, but that wasn't because- it's just dry and cold outside and this is what happens, well, I mean, typically happens with this weather." I take a deep breath and slow down, enunciating each word clearly. "This didn't happen because I fell."

She just stares at me and lifts her head in a slow motion like a semi-nod. Then, as though awoken from a trance, her hands flee to her purse and return with a tissue.

"Here," she says simply, handing it to me animatedly.

"Thank you," I reply just as purely, graciously accepting the tissue.

"It's alright. Well, I guess I'll talk to you later. My name is Sarah, by the way."

"Oh, I'm John. Thanks again."

Her only reply is a small smile and she walks off, taking a seat closer to the back of the class. I turn around just to get one last glance at her, her expression unoccupied now as she waited for school to begin. She was pretty.

A tall, lanky boy seemed to materialize in the doorway and walked with a long gait over to the lab table I was situated at. He was at the very least a head and a half taller than I was, and the high cheek bones and the particular pattern of the curls of his hair was recognizable in an instance. Sherlock had an off-putting, stoic expression with eyes that flitted to every crevice in the room. The patience he'd portrayed during his performance did not seem to be so relevant as he persistently surveyed the room.

My heart raced and mindlessly checked to see if there was anymore blood dribbling from my nose. My throat was closed and my heart raced without showing signs of slowing down. I'd never thought that the opportunity to talk to him would come up so blatantly. I tried to clear my throat, but it came out as a wheezy cough, the sound catching his attention. He gave me a side ways glance, the most unapologetic and least forgiving glower I'd ever received, although the sort of apathetic way his lips curved suggested that he wasn't actually that cold.

"You're not sick, are you?" He says, looking away when he asks the question. His voice didn't seem to fit his figure, deeper than it should be, yet smooth.

"Oh, no, I was just going, to, uhm, no, I'm not sick." My mind had put my body under the false pretense that I had actually worked up the nerve to start a conversation with him.

"You were just going to what?" His fingers were laced with each other, acting as a hammock for his chin as he focused his attention towards the front of the class.

I was flushed, I could feel it, my cheeks were on fire. "I was just going to say that, well, I really enjoyed you playing the violin."

"Was it necessary that you clear your throat to gain my attention if that was all you needed to say? I'm a human, John, you can address me as such." There was no contempt in his voice, it was just an observation.

I look away, my mouth opening once with the intent of saying something, but I close it in order to avoid any more bitter requital. I look over at my binder and see my name written plainly on it, the mystery of him knowing my name no longer such.

"Right, of course." I reply finally.

From the corner of my eye, I can see the edges of his lips turn up slightly as he says, "I appreciate that you enjoyed it though."

My cheeks become sore from suppressing an outright grin, my gaze just flickered from him to my hands. He appreciated my enjoyment.

"So," he says, turning to face me full on. I watch as his eyes glance me over from head to toe. "Rugby or foot ball?" Even though it was a question, the way he presented it felt more like a statement, like I was taking a true or false quiz.

"Foot ball," I reply, watching him. I wasn't surprised if he knew that I played a sport, most boys did.

"Sweeper?" He says, one hand in his lap and the other drumming on the table, a nervous twitch. He was certainly the impatient type.

"Oh, yes." I reply. Knowing of a sport is one thing, knowing the position was another. "How did you know?"

He looks away again as though to figure out how he himself did it and then glances back at me. "Your knees, your right in particular," he says, looking at me in response as though this made sense. He sighed when my face remained crumpled in confusion. "The way they hang from your chair, the way you slowly shift them implies injury or strain of some sorts, thus I gather a sport. Why not ask track and field? Because it's not the summer and you do not have the build of a runner; thus, rugby or foot ball. I would've assumed it was only foot ball except for the callouses on your hands, which now I can predict came from yard work over the summer considering the tan line that starts at the collar of your shirt.

"Now, how did I know you were a sweeper? Your right knee, which you move with special care and stretch it out in particular. Like I said before, you do not have the build of a runner, your legs are too short to keep up with the continuous running up and down the field. Why not midfield? Because it is the sweeper's job to _slide _and _sweep_. You were obviously doing so, mostly on your right side."

"Yes, but-" I try to interject, but he doesn't allow me to continue.

"But sweepers are allowed to roam the field? Yes, I am aware of this, but you're obviously an army brat and therefor practical and keen. You are aware of the fact that people are faster than you and you would not be able to keep up, so you remain on one half of the field; the opposing side. You keep up your stamina and use a boost of speed when necessary.

"Now, why didn't I assume goal keeper? One last time, you're too short. Also, my older brother, Mycroft, is the goal keeper."

He turns to the front again as though all that he'd just said had never been spoken. I stare at him, unable to comprehend how he'd noticed so much in such little time.

"That was impressive, amazing. You got everything right, except-"

"Except?" He whips back around, eyes squinted and curious. His nose wrinkled in the slightest bit as though what he'd said was left in the air and he was analyzing the text.

"I didn't do yard work over the summer." I say, finishing my statement.

His eyes don't leave my face until he closes them, lifting his head up as though a breeze had passed by. "Ah, I see. Army brat, military camp. That would explain the callouses on the palms of your hands, but the pads of your fingers on your left hand have callouses also-" a tiny grin presents itself on his thin lips. "You play an instrument."

"The guitar," I specify.

"Well, you've obviously practiced quite a bit if you've formed callouses. I think I'd like to hear you play some time since you got to hear me play the violin." He looks at me, the grin surprisingly still there. "You'll play for me." What was supposed to be a question ended up as an imperative, but it didn't even matter.

I raise my eyebrows, look around a little, and reply, "Yeah, sure."


	4. Chapter 3

It's amazing how much the temperature can change in just a few hours. The chilly air had turned a tad humid and the temperature nothing less than tepid. Maybe it only felt like this because of the nonstop rush from the bus stop to my home. I wouldn't allow myself to slow down, although my knee was persistent in doing so.

I keep murmuring damn under my breath, fumbling with my keys to get the door unlocked. My head was a blur as was my heart beat, my lungs trembling with each breath from the relentless run. I get inside and sprint up the stairs, being able to do nothing but hold my breath on the way up. I open the door to my room, the hinges creaking with the ferocity of the movement. I scan the room and then step over to my dresser, picking up the leather wallet, the material softened by the numerous other times it had been held. I take a moment to collect my thoughts and take as many deep breaths as possible to get the blood flowing to my brain again. I pick up the case to my guitar with the time-worn instrument inside and was down the stairs as quickly as I'd been up.

"Mum!" I call, swinging my head back and forth, pacing around the living room in search of her. "_Mum!_"

It was common knowledge that my father would be at work, or perhaps job hunting, one of the two, and my mother would be home. There was a great possibility that she'd gone out to get groceries, in which case she wouldn't have taken the car anyway. Hell, the car had only been used in the past few years to help transport ourselves to our new homes, and the most recent time it'd hardly been able to start up from the neglect.

"Okay, okay John, calm down, it's all fine, just think." But it was no use, I couldn't bring my brain to conjure a feasible nor intelligible thought.

"What are you shouting for, John?" Harriet comes down the stairs, rubbing the sleep and booze out of her eyes, her hair a disheveled mess. "Another creepy crawly in your room, perhaps?" She made no point in her inflection that she was making a joke, stoicism filling her whole.

I ignore the pass and ask, "I need to go somewhere, do you know where Mum is? I need the car."

She blinks a couple times and swipes a lock of hair out of her face. "I think she went to the store. Don't worry, Johnny, I can take you where you need to go." Her arms drop feebly to her side and she squints her eyes as though there was something on my face. Lazily, she closes her eyes and asks, "Where was it you needed to go?"

"The music store. And thanks, Harry, but no thanks, I don't feel like being in the car with you when you get pulled over for a DUI."

She shrugged. "Suit yourself," she replies and makes her way back upstairs to be a recluse.

I check my watch; it was already 15:47, he'd be expecting me in less than a quarter hour. I can feel the warmth drop from my face, why did I make a promise I knew I couldn't keep? I knew I didn't have strings, I knew I didn't have transportation, _why_ did I promise Sherlock I could meet up with him this afternoon?

Slowly, I hit my head against the wall, being consistent and refusing to stop, probably disrupting Harry's attempt to nap in the process. Vaguely, hardly noticeably, I hear a knock blend in with the banging of my head, so subtle I thought it had just been my imagination. I had two options; either open the door and no one be there, risking myself look awkward to myself and any passer-by, or I could leave the door unanswered while there was someone actually knocking and risk being rude. I think it over for a moment and then cease my head hitting; I couldn't risk being rude.

I open the water-rotted door to reveal the kind and calm face of Mycroft. An initial feeling of shock passed by quickly as I remembered the familial relationship.

"Good afternoon, John, are you ready to go?" He asks leisurely.

I look around quickly, my heart starting. I grab the guitar case and walk out the door with him. I didn't think that Sherlock was poor, but I wasn't expecting the sleek, black car that looked unnatural in the bleak driveway. What surprised me even more than the high-class vehicle was the unprecedented trust I had for this family. Without a second thought I'd walked out the door with a different brother than expected, but a Holmes nonetheless.

"Sherlock thinks that it's impudent to have a license, he doesn't see the point in having to have a piece of plastic to prove he is capable of something." Mycroft opens the back door of the car for me and smiles. "But we can't have him on the road with no papers, can we?" I step in and he leaves for the front for me to close the door on my own.

I'd never been in a car this nice, the leather was soft yet firm, giving off the notion that it was a new car, except there was no new-car smell that usually accompanies vehicles that look this spruced up. Everything seemed to have its own individual gleam, making it a little overwhelming, but still amazing to look at. All of this must be cleaned on a regular basis to keep it so nice. I smiled to myself a little. No wonder Sherlock was so amazing at the violin, he sure as Hell had the money to pay for the lessons. Then it strikes me, Sherlock isn't even in the car.

"Uh, Mycroft-" I begin, but he cuts me off with a smile and a statement.

"John, Sherlock told me to pick these up for you." He hands back several packs of strings of varying widths and metals. I decide not to ask questions and just give Mycroft my thanks.

The car ride is a little awkward due to the silence, or at least it was for me, Mycroft seemed to be an even bigger enigma than Sherlock, I'd never seen him show any other emotion than content. The quiet car ride came to an end fifteen minutes after leaving my home, pulling up to a quaint, two-story home that looked just as new as the car we'd driven in. It looked as though it'd just been built, there was no sign of wood rotting or paint peeling and the shingles were perfect, no sign of water-wear. I started to feel nauseous realizing how out-of-place I was with my worn out jumper and patched up jeans in a place so sleek and precise.

I get out of the car and remove my case carefully, afraid to scuff up any part of the car. I can feel the blood from my face fall as I realize that my shoes had left a small imprint of dirt in the carpet. I couldn't bring myself to figure out why I was freaking out so much.

Mycroft opened the front door for me and I thanked him quickly, rubbing my feet off on the mat outside before entering. The door opened up to an atrium like room, the only clutter I could spot being a few scattered books on the coffee table. I praised God he hadn't come to my home.

"Sherlock will be in his room upstairs, third door on the right." Mycroft said. I felt stupid that I'd forgotten that he was even there, he had been standing there watching me ogle at his house without a word.

"Thank you." I say. It seemed to be the only thing I could say. I walk up the stairs stiffly and follow his directions to the third door on the right. I instinctively reach for the door knob and stop and remind myself to knock.

I rap a few times on the door and a wait a moment to see if there'd be a response before lightly calling, "Sherlock?"

I hear shuffling in the room and a small grumble. "Come in," he calls.

I open the door to a room that resembled a sty. Papers were strewn across the stained carpet as well as were tacked up on the wall. Beakers littered his desk and his test tube rack was holding more than it was built for. The curtains were drawn and the only light was coming from the lamp emanating from under the microscope that made it's home in the center of his desk, surrounded by studies and pencils. This was far from what I was expecting and my eyebrow arched responsively.

"Hello," I say, propping my case against my body.

"Hello," he says, sitting nonchalantly in a swivel chair, brushing his hair back with his spindly fingers. He rolled across the room and picked up his violin case. He opened it up and removed a packet of cigarettes where the rosin should've been stored.

He patted it with the palm of his hand and while offering one to me said, "You don't smoke."

I furrowed my eyebrows. "No, I don't."

He kept his eyes on me for a moment and then stored them back away, "Neither do I."

Uncomfortable remaining stationary, I remove my guitar and begin to restring, careful while removing the old strings so that they wouldn't snap and strike me in the face. After all was ready, we both remained awkwardly still, waiting for the other to begin.

Without warning, Sherlock picks up his violin and draws the first bow. I wait one measure, and then another, afraid to ruin what he'd begun. I closed my eyes, choked down my fear, and strummed, easily and fluidly, fitting the soft tune he was creating. His eyes were mostly closed, but I could barely see through his slits that he was watching me. It was then that I noticed that he was beginning to transition into a completely different song and my fingers fumbled as I tried to change with him. After a couple of measures, everything got sorted out and our melody filled the room. I don't think I'd ever felt so comfortable and at ease, like the worries and stress of school and football slipped off and were masked by the music.

I don't know how long we went on, I was slumped against his wall and my fingers were beginning to get numb from the consistency. I watched as Sherlock began to slow down and his sounds muted. We came to what felt like a premature close, but an end nonetheless.

He set his violin and bow aside and held his head in the hammock of his hands, eyes closed and face relaxed. My arms remained draped over the body of my guitar and I examined the blisters on the tips of my fingers and smiled.

He opened his eyes and looked at an area near me.

"John," he said.

"What?"

"Percy."

"What?" Who the Hell was 'Percy'?

"Rat."


End file.
